


we drank the ocean dry and watched the sun rise

by bruised_fruit



Series: headcanon compliant [26]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Biting, F/M, Post-Canon, Vignettes, melancholic fluff, referenced self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 13:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruised_fruit/pseuds/bruised_fruit
Summary: It’s like he said: ocean stretching on forever everywhere you look, and the unsteady deck of the Wavesmasher feels so much like the old starship you called home.“It’s nice to have you visiting me for once,” he says, watching you with a small smile on his face.





	we drank the ocean dry and watched the sun rise

**Author's Note:**

> title from "all this beauty" by the weepies

It’s like he said: ocean stretching on forever everywhere you look, and the unsteady deck of the Wavesmasher feels so much like the old starship you called home. 

“It’s nice to have you visiting me for once,” he says, watching you with a small smile on his face. “How do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” you say. Something on his face shifts at the lie. He knows you too well. 

“When was the last time you had a break from work?” 

The last time he visited you, maybe. You’d taken a couple days away from the paperwork and the stress of being the Director. Time to focus on him, and on enjoying yourself for once. 

He wraps an arm around your thigh. “This’ll be fun. You’ll see, Lucy.” 

\--

You fuck him belowdecks, on his bed in the captain’s quarters. His body hasn’t been underneath yours in months. Touching him feels natural, in spite of the decade.

He kisses you when you finish, pulling you down beside him. 

“I was thinking about selling the ship, you know.”

“Oh?” You know it makes him happy. You’ve all found things to make life worth living. 

He shifts closer to you, his legs parting, inviting you to touch his cunt. “Then maybe when you retire, we can live together…” 

“Hm…” You rub a finger over him, gathering slick, mostly your own. You’ll get him off again tonight, but for now you’re mostly just enjoying his body, the mess you made of him. “When I retire…” you begin, and he squirms. Talking about the future turns him on, when it’s like this. “We could have a nice little cottage outside of Neverwinter.”

He sighs, predictably pleased. It’s sweet. “Big enough for the crew to visit for dinners…”

“Of course,” you say, your hand moving from his cunt to his belly. You’ve always liked rubbing him here, where he’s soft and so receptive to touch. “Now let me hear your cute little noises again.” You pull him on top of you, mouth at his neck. 

Tonight is all about him. Let it be about him, for once.

\--

You wake up to an empty bed. Just like the century. His spot is still warm, and you touch it, and your chest aches with his absence, however temporary. 

And your body aches. Last night was harder on you than you’d like to admit. 

He’s in the ship’s small kitchen, and he looks up with a grin when he hears you on the creaky floorboards. 

“Omelettes and toast— I figured with only a week offshore, I could get away with real groceries.” He sets down two plates at the table, giving you a look. He’s frowning slightly, and you feel too exposed in your nightgown. “You’ve been eating okay, right?”

“Yes,” you lie. He doesn’t press you further. 

You join him at the table. Spinach, cheese, and ham. Maureen used to make the scrambled egg version of this, and you’d made it on special occasions after she died. 

“Thanks for cooking.”

He frowns slightly. You’re not sure why. “Thanks for visiting, Lucy.” He takes your hand, and he kisses it. 

\--

“Tomorrow I’ll get you up in time for the sunrise,” he says, knees hanging over the deck of the ship. You’re holding the fishing pole, and he’s watching the line in the water. “I’ve actually taken to sleeping in some days.” He gives you a watery smile. 

Just like the decade. 

“The sunrises are just gorgeous. I do love this world, I just… it feels odd, not having you beside me.”

Numbly, you say, “I know that feeling.” He puts a hand on your knee, and you almost jerk away. 

“It’s all pretty odd still, I guess.” You blink, meeting his eyes. Dark, glittering, slightly narrowed. 

You sigh. “Do you ever feel like we’re just, I don’t know. Brute-forcing through everything?” 

He nods, slow, and his fingers on your leg press down almost painfully before he pulls away. Physicality, your solidity, it comforts him, now more than ever. You don’t mind him indulging.

You reel in nothing. Fishing is boring anyway, he tells you, tossing the bait into the sea. 

You stay sitting on the deck, and he settles into your lap. You missed this. Especially during the decade. 

You kiss, he gropes at you, you bat him away and finger him until he’s a gasping, writhing mess. Until his slick is coating your hand, and he’s pulling you down, panting and tearful. 

“I need you, Lucy. Just give me— please, I need—” You kiss him, maybe just to quiet him. His wanting you hurts so, so badly, a wound you know will never heal. 

Your clit fits perfectly inside him. He is warm and tight and so familiar, and he whimpers your name while you fuck him on the deck of his ship. 

“Getting too old for fucking on the floor like this,” you say after he has his second orgasm, after you’ve filled him. You watch your mess seep out of him, and it’s disgusting. You taste yourself, and you’ve done it so many times before, but there’s nothing dirtier. You used to help this man into his pajamas on his bad days and tuck him into bed every night.

Best not think about that. You rest your cheek on his thigh and feel the sun beat down on your skin, his hands in your hair. 

“Don’t sleep just yet, Lucy.” His voice is quiet. “Not here.” He stands, helps you stand, gathers your clothes. Kisses your stomach. You love him so much. He loves you. 

You settle down on the bed in his quarters, and he snuggles against you. 

\--

Dinner is chicken, potatoes, and green beans. “Pulling out all the stops, huh?” you tease, picking up your fork, and he smiles.

You had this nearly every week back in Tesseralia, when the two of you were sharing an apartment. A staple. A favorite. It almost tastes the same. 

“You know,” he says when you’re nearly done, “I was serious about wanting to sell the ship. And, you know. Wanting to settle down, or try. What about you?”

“When I’m ready,” you say, feeling a rush of childish defensiveness as you add, “I’m old, but I’d like to do as much as I can, while I can.” He raises an eyebrow. He knows this. “I just don’t feel ready to retire.”

He pops a green bean in his mouth. “Whatever makes you happy.” 

There’s a bite to his tone, but you don’t comment on it. 

\--

You look out over the sea, leaning on the railing after dinner. Davenport joins you on the deck, putting a hand on the small of your back and nudging your arm with his forehead. You scratch his ear and hear him sigh. 

“Sorry if I seemed pissy earlier.”

You rest your hand on his head, lick your lips. “I know you never wanted me to stay with the BoB.”

“That’s not it, not really…” He sighs again, his hand running down your back and under the waistband of your slacks. “Aren’t the stars so brilliant out here?” 

They’re reflected in the dark water, but you look up. The sky is bright with them.

He slides your slacks off, your underwear, runs his hands over your thighs. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

“It’s my favorite part,” he says, and you grab the railing of the deck with both hands, resisting the urge to look back at him. “After the smell. Reminds me of the beach cycle…” He breathes a lube cantrip, and his finger runs over your hole, presses inside. You moan in spite of yourself, and because he loves your noises. 

He kisses your back while he fingers you, occasionally grazing your prostate, eventually adding a second finger, eventually grabbing at your clit and stroking you. This used to feel like proof that he loved you, and it still does. He kisses your back and tells you he loves you, he loves you so much, and all you can do is believe him. 

You hold tightly to the railing while he whispers nonsense into your skin, while he fucks you and strokes you and kisses and licks you, and your orgasm nearly brings you to your knees, but he steadies you.

He wipes your face with his clean hand, tears that leaked from your eyes without permission. He uses Prestidigitation on his other hand, on your thighs, on the deck. He gets on his knees to pull your bottoms up for you, and he zips you carefully. 

“Good?” he asks. 

“Very.”

He kisses the zipper of your slacks, an old habit of his. He grabs your hands when he stands. Pulls you to him, presses his face to your stomach and sighs with contentment. 

“I wish you could stay.” 

Do you have a wish, anymore? Not really, not other than for him to be happy, to get to love him in the short time you’ll have left together. To feel the warmth that comes with his company, his affection, his pleasure. “I would if I could,” you might say, but instead you’re silent, you’re letting your hands rest on his upper back, and you’re kissing the top of his head. 

\--

“Let me suck you off,” you breathe. 

He rolls to his back in the dark, and he turns to look at you. A pause, longer than anything. He reaches for his ring and slides it on.

“It’s not payback,” he says quietly. For what, you don’t know. For earlier? For everything you did to him? Maybe it’s better not to know. 

You wrap your fingers around his cock. Small, warm, soft. _ His. _ He’s been using the same Alter Self the whole time you’ve known him, and it is so beautiful.

You kiss him, lick him, close your eyes as his hands bury themselves in your hair. 

“You don’t have to work yourself to death.” 

Not now. You pull back slightly, and his hands don’t push you down again. You nip at his inner thigh. “Hypocrite,” you say, and you bite him again and again, and his cock is hard now just from this. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

He grabs himself, strokes jerkily, and moans, and you nudge his hand with your nose, rough.

“Let me.” You look up--it is completely dark for you, but he’ll meet your eyes, you know--and you take his head. Then more, more, your eyes closing, one of his hands still in your hair but the other at your cheek.

He whimpers when he comes, still stifling the noise. It is such a sweet sound. You’d taken it for granted. 

He doesn’t taste like himself. He’s saltier, and the bitterness nearly waters your eyes while you swallow.

You kiss his soft cock, pull his sleep pants up. Climb up to join him on the pillow. 

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much, Lucretia.”

“I love you too, Andrew.” You kiss him, and he grabs at you like he’s sure you’ll pull apart too soon, like you’ll never kiss again. 

\--

It’s still pitch black when he wakes you, warm breath on your face. 

“It’s starting soon,” he says, and he sounds excited, almost, as he guides you to the door. The dim light on the stairs is enough for you, but he’s careful as he helps you up the stairs like you’re a much older woman. 

“I know what you’ll say,” he says once you’re on the deck, the smell of ocean and air overwhelming. “‘I wish I’d brought my paints.’”

You chuckle, still bleary with sleep. “Or my glasses.” 

He grabs your hand. “I can get them?” 

You give him a squeeze, pull him further onto the deck. You’ve seen many sunrises before, but this one is special, it’s his. You’ve held his hand so many times, but now more than ever, you don’t want to let go. 

“Is this East?” you ask, on the side of the ship, and you barely hear his “yes” as he helps you sit. There’s already a bit of purple streaking the dark sky. It gives way to rich pinks and oranges, and Davenport rests his head against your arm the way you never let him during the decade. 

“You gave us this sunrise,” he says quietly.

“You did, too.”

“I know.” He shifts, a hand going to your forearm, resting over the countless marks you always pretend he can’t see. His hand shifts up, touching the scar he’d left on you in a blind panic back during the decade. “I’m not going to thank you,” he whispers. “I’ve had a lot of time to think, out here.”

He moves up, his mouth hovering over the black scar Wonderland gave you, stemming up to your neck. His tongue touches the mark like a dark vein, traces it lower to your marred stomach. He catches you looking down at him, and he blinks, slow. 

You look away, back up at the sky. “It really is beautiful.” His teeth sink into your flesh, and you know already that he will draw blood, he will mark you. Like the bite on your arm. But this one is purposeful, is his. He stays with his teeth embedded in you for a long time, and when he pulls away, he presses his hand over the wound, and you feel the slick of blood.

“Happy?” you ask, and he laughs, dry. 

“You?”

“I’ve been worse.” You bend to kiss him, and you taste yourself, and you bathe in the early morning light. 


End file.
